A Friend For Russia
by WhimsicalShmoo
Summary: Because Romano hated Russians—though not nearly as much as he hated Germans, particularly those in the vicinity of his brother. Unfortunately, he was much more afraid of the former. Russia and Romano friendship


**Gift fic for **Charan-Amaya **^^ Hope it turned out to your liking! **

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Today was turning out to be a rather terrible day for Romano. It had started off with that stupid potato bastard showing up at his house, promptly at eight. As if Italy would be here. As if Italy would be awake. Once glaring out the window to determine the identity of the knocker at his door, Romano would've been content to go back to sleep and leave the German outside. No matter it was raining. Stupid potato deserved it for what he'd done to his brother.

But no, it couldn't have been left at that. For once in his life, Spain had been up early, any reason for which escaped Romano. Not that he had given it much thought—he'd been far too put off by the whole affair to do so—but the stupid, stupid Spaniard had decided to answer the door. And once Spain let someone in, they were not leaving for a good few hours, even if they wanted to. Which many did, as Spain could be quite the chatterbox.

He could also be quite the manipulative one, if that was the right word. As soon as the potato bastard was through the door, he began trailing on and on and on about the weather, and how awfully dreary it was, and would he like some tea? Or perhaps warm milk, hot chocolate? Oh, the way he looked like a soaked rat reminded him of this the time Romano had wandered off in a rainstorm—just like this one—and he had been so worried until the boy finally came back, and oh how adorable he had looked! Germany did not look as cute, of course, but it simply wasn't to be expected. And speaking of which, how was Italy? Successfully giving himself a chance to blabber on for a good few minutes before allowing the German to continue on with whatever he had come for in the first place.

Romano could clearly hear the chatter word for word, despite it coming from downstairs through a closed door. Despite the numerous ways he tried to stuff a pillow over his head. It simply wouldn't work.

And so he had gotten up, begrudgingly dressed, and stormed downstairs. Because that's what he did when he was in a bad mood. That and yell at Spain, which he was about to do.

"Romano!" Spain cheered from where he was making hot chocolate—Romano was too riled up to notice that there were, in fact, three cups—that usually idiotically pleasant smile on his face. About to be wiped off.

"Why did you let him in?" Romano nearly screeched—nearly because he was not a girl, and only girls screeched. He jabbed a finger accusingly at the German.

"Oh, Romano…it's pouring out there, I couldn't just let him—"

"You could've, bastard!" Romano shouted back, face flushing with anger. "You fucking could've!" Germany wisely decided to stay out of the argument.

"Oh, Romano, you're so cute when you're upset…you look like a little—"

"I do not look like a freaking tomato!" he yelled, before storming out of the house. Into the pouring rain. But he couldn't deal with those bastards anymore. He couldn't…

And so he ran. Romano was never one for sprinting, but it took his mind off of matters, replaced by thoughts of the stitch growing slowly but steadily in his side, and the rush of blood in his ears.

The sky was darkening by the time he finally stopped, trailing to a halt. But perhaps it was just the storm, as it couldn't possibly have been that long since he started running. He bent over hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath as he glanced behind him. Some part of him—that was quickly smothered and executed for so much as suggesting the idea—had hoped to see the Spaniard chasing after him, calling his name with his usual smile replaced by an apologetic frown…

Romano snorted. As if that would ever happen.

It was about this time that he noticed something. He felt as if he were being watched, a creepy, ominous feeling. Shivering—whether from the sinister atmosphere or from the cold rain soaking him, he did not know—he wrapped his arms around himself, and searched his surroundings…

Only to lock gazes with two purple eyes that he really did not need to see right now. An impossibly long, trailing scarf confirmed his suspicious.

"R-Russia!" Romano screeched. And he was alright with admitting it this time, because the other Nation was creepy! It was justified.

"Romano-kun~!" the taller Nation returned, a smile on his face as he tilted his head (_menacingly_) to the side.

The two stared at each other, Romano shaking violently—it was freaking cold, dammit!—and Russia continuing to smile pleasantly. They were both soaked through to the skin, even if the Russian appeared not to register it. Normally, Romano would've sprinted on sight of the man, but he was tired from running for a good hour, and too cold to move. So instead, he stood like a deer in headlights, teeth chattering as his lips began to adopt a blue tone.

"You must be cold, da?" Russia inquired after a moment.

If it were anyone else, Romano would've answered with a sarcastic _"No shit, Sherlock"_. But as it was, he merely stood stock still, hoping that if he didn't move, the Russian would lose interest and go away.

"Come," Russia commanded, though it was rather unnecessary: the Italian remained frozen in place, so he inevitably grabbed his hand and began dragging the other Nation along with him.

Romano didn't know how long they walked. He was too focused on the Russian's strong grip on his hand, and how he could crush him if he wanted to, and, oh, did he want to run as fast as his legs could carry him and get the hell away from the creepy man. He knew it would be no use, but that didn't stop him from wanting to try. He was just so freaking tired and cold…

Eventually they reached a house. Not a familiar house and obviously not a house belonging to the Russian either, as he proceeded to kick down the door when he found it locked. Unless he treated his own door in the same manner—Romano wouldn't put it passed the man.

Once they were in, Russia dragged him to the living room, depositing him on the couch, before moving back to the doorway. Romano was hardly aware of the sound of tortured wood be forced back in place, so cold he was. His eyes were beginning to droop, the hypothermia settling in…What would happen if he were to die right now, freeze to death? Although, really, that wasn't possibly, because Nations didn't die so easily, but would anyone miss him? His brother surely, and maybe that tomato bastard. But that would be it…

He awoke some time later to a hearty flame going on in the previously empty fire place, his clothes laid out before the hearth to dry…

Wait.

His _clothes_? Then what was he wearing? Jerking up, he glanced down at himself, to see a pair of unfamiliar pants and a shirt that was definitely not his. What on earth…?

And it was then he saw the enormous overcoat and scarf hanging by the fire, and his memory was jogged as to the means of his presence here. _Russia_.

Violently, he leapt to his feet, searching around frantically for the other man.

"Awake, I see," came a voice from behind him, with an unmistakably Russian accent.

Romano yelped, and spun around, tripping over his own foot in the effort. Two large hands caught his upper arms, steadying him with the accompaniment of an amused giggle.

"Calm," was all the taller man said, as he released him, turning his back to grab something. A hand pushed the smaller man back into a sitting position, before handing him the something.

The something turned out to be a mug of hot chocolate. _Weird Russian hot chocolate_, Romano mused groggily. He vaguely thought of Spain, wondering if the German was still there, infesting his living space…

"Why were you out there?" Russia asked after a moment's pause.

"I ran away," Romano replied, warming his hands on the smooth ceramic. Hesitantly, he took a sip, taking another at the surprisingly pleasant taste. The hypothermia must have messed with his brain. This was _Russia_ talking to him. _Russia_ that had dragged him here. _Russia_ that had…changed him out of his clothes—he flushed, with a mixture of anger and embarrassment, because really, that was the only explanation, wasn't it?

"From Spain?" Russia asked with a hint of surprise. "But he cares about you…why run away?"

"He was being an insensitive bastard," Romano took another sip, feeling the warmth ease down into his stomach. "And besides…he doesn't really care about me. He's just after my inheritance. And he's only stuck with me, because he couldn't get a hold of my brother. That's all."

"Mmmm~" the taller man hummed sympathetically, sipping at his own cup of hot chocolate as he watched the fire flicker away. "Still…must be nice...having someone around."

"Sometimes," Romano responded, still not courageous enough to outright deny the bigger man. He'd never seen the Russian without his scarf before. His neck looked bare without it, strangely exposed and vulnerable.

"Everyone left me," Russia continued, finishing his warm drink, so that he could stare dismally at the remaining dregs, despite the false smile that continued to twitch at his lips. "I would give anything to have them back. Excepting…Belarus, of course."

Romano shuddered at the mere mention of the psychotic girl's name. Russia, mistaking it as a shiver from the cold, looked concerned. "Are you still cold, Romano-kun? Russia will warm you up."

"No!" the smaller man shouted, before the Russian could move. "I'm fine! I swear to god, I'm fine!"

"If you say," the taller man responded. The smile did not reach his eyes. "But that is what I mean. Everyone is so scared of me…Russia isn't going to hurt people. At least, not all the time…"

_It's because you're so damn scary_! Romano wanted to shout. But again, his tongue failed him.

"Russia just wants to be friends with everyone…Russia just wants friends," his eyes lighted on the smaller man, as if he had not noticed him before. "You will be friends with Russia, da?"

"I…" Romano found his throat choking with fear. _Hell no!_ he wanted to shout. But that hopeful look in those big, demented, evil puppy-like eyes. The Italian was not a sap like his brother, but he did not have a rock for a heart, as some seemed to believe. "I-I will." He finished grudgingly, the chatter returning to his teeth, as he scrubbed at his arms.

"Russia is so glad!" He found himself in a bear hug, the life being veritably squeezed out of him. But he managed to hold onto his hot chocolate and prevent it from spilling. Odd that.

"I can't breathe!" Romano tried to say. But did not, because he really could not breathe. And one can not talk when they can not breathe, a fact he had not known until this unpleasant experience.

"Oh…sorry," the larger man sheepishly with drew, leaving the abused Italian gasping for breath. "But I am so happy!"

"T-that's good," Romano stuttered out, his fear returning. A dreadful thought occurred to him. "W-where are the owners…of this h-house?"

"Elsewhere," the Russia returned cryptically, the far too pleasant smile not leaving his face. "It does not matter."

Eventually, the two settled down to sleep out the rest of the night, and await in the downpour's end. Romano, of course, could not sleep, not with a freaky most definitely homicidal Russian in the same room as him. In fact, he wanted to get the hell out of there as soon as possible. So, when the first snores began to emit from the sleeping giant, he changed back into his own dried clothes and made a break for it. But not before a wave of sympathy washed over him, causing him to do a sappy, girlish thing.

Before sprinting out of the house, as fast as his aching legs would carry him, he placed the Russian's now dry coat over the man, tucking the scarf around his neck. Because really, it was freezing in here, and it wouldn't be right to let Russia catch a cold after he had gone through the trouble of "saving" him. Or at least that was what he told himself.

Around daybreak, when he finally managed to stumble his misdirected way back home—he had no idea where he was in relation to the building—Spain welcomed him in with open arms. Literally. The Spaniard wouldn't let him go, no matter how hard he kicked and punched.

Thankfully, the German was gone, so after much fussing over by an overly concerned Spain, Romano fought his way upstairs into his bedroom, firmly locking the door. He fell on his bed, only bothering to kick off his shoes, before snuggling into the soft bedding. The nightmare was finally over, for Romano was sure that was what it was. Relieved, and exhausted the Italian fell into a deep, comfortable sleep.

But when a knock at his window awoke him around noon, and he saw a Russian outside, in the tree beside his window, Romano was not quite so sure. "Romano-kun!" called the Russian, smiling that eerie smile in at him, as he continued to bang his fist against the glass, which shuddered with each blow. "Come out to play! We're friends now, remember?"

Romano shuddered to think of what he'd gotten himself into. He'd have to have Spain cut down that tree. That was, if the psychotic Russian didn't break in and kill him first.


End file.
